


Stay With Me Just For Now

by juxtapose



Series: Merlin/Arthur Reincarnation [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the last words Merlin said to Arthur before he died had been more than mere words, and maybe Arthur and Merlin’s reunion was meant to happen, but for the first time Destiny had absolutely nothing to do with it. But it appears Destiny wants its King back...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay With Me Just For Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there! Thought I'd ring in one more fic before I head back to school. This turned out much longer than I'd anticipated, but I hope you all enjoy it.  
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Merlin belongs to BBC/Shine, and it's over now, but we don't talk about that.

It starts out with small, strange happenings--the kind that seem insignificant at the time, but hover in one’s mind just long enough to be tucked away for future nights lying awake thinking--like tiny ripples in an ocean that are almost invisible.

Arthur Pendragon will be walking down the office corridor when a passerby suddenly collides smack into him, pushing past with a disgruntled head-shake as if attempting to walk right through him.

Or he’ll be in the middle of pitching an idea to win over a potential client, and his father will look past him with a vacant expression in his fierce yet worn face before muttering, “ . . . Oh. Arthur? Were you saying something?”

And even something as simple as ordering lunch at the deli has become a problem lately, considering people have the audacity to cut right in front of him in the sandwich line. Arthur muses that if they knew he’d ruled over their land once, maybe they’d think twice.

But at the end of the day, Merlin is always waiting for him when he gets home, all but throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck and holding him close in a warmth that feels like home, and everything is all right again.

Until it isn’t.

* * *

Arthur stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, brow furrowed and head tilted slightly in contemplation. Today, he’d gone almost an entire boardroom meeting without anyone making a single comment in his direction--he’s the _COO of the company_ , for God’s sake--and had exactly five of his co-workers, three secretaries, and two children on the sidewalk choose to disregard his existence in the bustle of heading out of the building.

Just out of curiosity, he’d asked a woman outside the tube station for the time. She’d promptly ignored him.

At first, he’d attributed these little instances with the overwhelming, ever-present buzz of London life. Tourists, people on their way to work, people leaving work--it’s easy to get shoved and hustled about on any given weekday.

But Arthur is beginning to feel almost invisible, now. And it’s starting to unnerve him.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is muffled from the other side of the closed door. “Dinner’s almost done . . .” He segues into some half-muttered rambling about how he’d started cooking earlier but left the oven too long and it’s not as if you’ll care whether or not I’m using magic to whip up the rest of this anyway, and for the record it’s not laziness, you prat; I’d like to see you deal with a lot of screaming primary school children all day . . . Some things, Arthur thinks, never change.

He rubs his eyes tiredly, letting out a loud yawn. His memories--of Camelot, of being King Arthur, of the land he’d tried ardently to build--had only returned to him six months ago. It’s been an adjustment, to say the least, to balance this life with the one he suddenly began to recall so well. Merlin has certainly been helping with that, but it doesn’t make the whole idea of it--of leading essentially two lives, one of them cast away into storybooks on dusty library shelves--any less daunting.

When Arthur opens his eyes again, the face of the Lady of the Lake is where his reflection should be.

“Bloody hell!” Arthur stumbles backward, almost crashing into the bathtub behind him, “Freya?” The name tumbles from his mouth in a startled cry.

Freya, her big, compassionate eyes trained on Arthur’s, begins to speak: “Hello, King Arthur. I am glad to see you’re well.”

Arthur had never met Freya in life except, unbeknownst to him, in the courtyard of Castle Camelot before his time as king, as she battled the beastly curse within her. But upon his descent into Avalon, he became very familiar with her presence, as her fate was to guard the lake in which his soul slept for so long.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” Arthur sputters, “Should I . . . should I get Merlin to--”

“You and I both know I am not truly here. Not corporeally. I’ve been sent here to give you a message.” Freya’s voice is quiet, warm, smooth, like the lake to which she’s bound.

Leaning against the sink, Arthur sighs. “And what‘s that?”

“You’re not meant to roam this earth just yet, Arthur Pendragon." Freya’s tone changes from a peaceful calm to a distinct sadness. “The world is not ready for you.”

Arthur shakes his head a little, trying to process the information washing over him. “Sorry, I . . . See, I’m just now getting used to the idea that I’ve come back to begin with, for whatever reason, so the fact that you’re telling me I _shouldn’t_ have--”

“You may not remember the great power that surges in the depths Avalon waters, Great King, now that you have returned to your world,” Freya interjects, “Only those who remain here submerged in its magic know. Avalon sees the past, the present, and all futures. But even mighty Avalon did not forsee this.”

“I don’t understand.” Arthur grits his teeth, clenches his fists in frustration. “Forget all this cryptic nonsense, Freya. What are you trying to say?”

She casts her eyes downward, lips curved downward into a frown. “Have you been feeling lost, King Arthur? Like you’re disappearing from the very earth you walk upon?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He feels he doesn’t need to. Freya is no fool.

“This is because Avalon is calling you back, Arthur. Calling you back home to sleep. It was not the hands of fate that allowed Avalon to release you from its hold. It was Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Arthur runs his hands over his face wearily, trying to make sense of it all. How could Merlin have possibly been the one to bring Arthur back? Merlin had made it very clear to Arthur upon his return that such a task would have been impossible. Fate had Arthur bound to Avalon, and Merlin bound to waiting for him.

Freya nods, but the finality of it tells Arthur she won‘t say any more on the subject. “You will know when the time comes. It won’t be long now. You’ll return here until you’re needed again.”

And suddenly, Arthur’s angry. “Until I’m _needed_? Look, I have a life here--and I--I have Merlin--" The emotion packed behind the utterance of Merlin’s name is a surprise to Arthur himself. “--and you can’t just take me out of it when you so choose!” His head his swimming, his heart pounding.

“It is not I who makes these decisions, Arthur,” Freya replies, not unkindly, “You’ll have to go.”

“No.” Before Arthur can utter the syllable himself, a familiar voice nearby says it for him. He turns to face Merlin, who stands in the open doorway, tears in his eyes. “Arthur’s not going anywhere.”

* * *

Arthur is pacing. Merlin is sitting on the couch, his knees drawn to his chest as he stares intently at the wall. Arthur’s not sure how much time has passed like this, but he decides he’s going to put an end to it.

“We need to talk about this,” he says resolutely, “And no beating around the bush. I’m trying to understand it all, and it’s easier if you just--tell it to me, straight out. Understand?”

Merlin makes eye contact with Arthur for the first time in what feels like hours. He looks tired. His aged eyes contrast with his youthful appearance. In this moment, Arthur thinks, he does look about fifteen-hundred years old. “I would tell you,” he says raspily, “if I knew what to say. I’m as clueless as you are.”

“You seemed to make things pretty clear with our visitor in the mirror earlier: I’m not going anywhere, you said. And now you’re sat here in some kind of trance and I just want to know what plan you’ve got up your sleeve.”

Merlin shakes his head, laughs a little. “There is no plan, prat,” he retorts.

“What?” Arthur almost laughs but for the severity of Merlin’s speech. He says, “Well, there’s got to be something we--”

“I have no idea how it is I brought you here, so how can I possibly know how to keep you here?” Merlin’s voice is heavy with resignation, and Arthur thinks this is most certainly _not_ how he remembered things to go between them when everything _around_ them seemed to be falling apart.

“Merlin.” Arthur pauses in his tracks, crosses his arms and gives Merlin a pointed, firm stare. “Don’t be daft. In the end it’s always you and me. We’ll get through it, together. We’ll figure something out.”

He can see just the hint of a smile tease Merlin’s face. “You always were good with speech-making.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I wish I were stronger. I wish I were better. But a thousand years has made me an old, old man on the inside. That’s just life--when you’re destined to live it forever." His eyes gloss with tears. “I couldn’t save you before. What makes you think I could save you now?”

Arthur shakes his head, kneels down in front of this person he doesn’t really recognize right now, tries to sift through the darkness and years of loneliness find the spark in him he knows is there. “You used to be so . . . so willing to fix things, to make things right. To a fault. I almost resented you for it, back in the old days. Your unwavering positivity, or at least your attempt to be so. It always rubbed off on me--in the best way.”

When it comes to feelings and all they entail, Arthur has to admit he’s got far from a way with words. So he decides his best bet is to speak with nothing but honesty.

If anything had been established between himself and Merlin since Arthur’s return, it’s that time really has changed Merlin. Arthur has made an effort to pry his way into Merlin’s thoughts in order to better understand what had passed since they last saw each other, but to mostly no avail. Clearly, things had not gone so well for Merlin in the fifteen-hundred years since Arthur’s death. Loneliness has grated at his complexion, waiting has hardened his heart. And for a while, it seemed Arthur had been able to bring to Merlin the happiness he deserved. Arthur had hoped that gradually he’d be able to break down the wall Merlin had spent centuries building around himself, but now--with the possibility of not seeing Merlin for another eternity--he’s afraid that will never come to pass.

Nonetheless, he tries for optimism.

“Think of this as a second chance.” Arthur gently pries Merlin’s fingers from their clamped position around his knobby knees, laces them with his own. “For both of us. In case you haven’t noticed . . . I don’t want to go, either. I reckon I should have a say, shouldn’t I? Spending the rest of my life here with you . . . there could be worse things.”

That gets him a smile, and in turn Arthur grins despite himself. He tries to hide an overwhelming feeling of triumph as he watches Merlin straighten his shoulders and rise up off the couch with a sigh. Arthur stands, too, letting Merlin slink his arms around Arthur’s middle and squeeze just a little.

“I think our best bet is to go. We’ll leave early in the morning,” Merlin says, his face muffled in the fabric of Arthur’s sweater.

“Sorry, go where?”

Merlin looks up at him, rolls his eyes, playfully swats his chest. “To the only place we’ll find answers, Arthur. Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to Avalon.”

* * *

Arthur jolts up in the middle of the night to the sound of Merlin crying. His sobs wrack his bony frame, and Arthur tries to hold him, soothe him, shake him out of it until finally Merlin looks at him with a look of relieved recognition and says, between shards of breaths, “You’re here.”

Arthur blinks the sleep out of his eyes, rubs his thumb along Merlin‘s trembling wrist. “What do you mean?"

“You were gone. I couldn't find you next to me; I couldn't feel your presence anymore. It felt . . . void. Of anything. Like it used to be before . . . " He visibly gulps. “Before you came back.”

Arthur realizes then that if he is fading away even to Merlin, _his_ Merlin, that it can’t be long now before his time is up. He stares down at the tangled sheets on his lap, listens to his own heavy breathing, reminding him that he still exists here, if not for much longer. He lies down again, staring up at the pale ceiling.

And folding his arms tightly around Merlin's waist, he kisses the side of his head, and doesn’t think how his tight grip on Merlin’s sharp hipbones might be more of a reassurance to himself than to Merlin--hoping that his sorcerer will somehow anchor him here through the night.

* * *

_Bright, shining, warm waters envelop him in waves, capturing his thoughts and reducing them to a hum. Confusion, however, reigns in the forefront of his mind. It is safe here, he knows--and yet it’s not where he wants to be._

_His limbs won’t let him swim to the surface. They’re half a step behind his brain. It frustrates him._

_Someone is calling his name. “Arthur? Arthur . . .” The voice is soothing, grounding, and Arthur wants to follow it. He squeezes his eyes shut (or at least he think he does, unsure of whether or not he’s in control of his body. He follows the voice. Louder and louder and--_

“Arthur? We’re here.”

Merlin squeezes his hand, and suddenly Arthur is back on the noisy bus which has just come to a complete stop. “You all right?” Merlin asks, his voice still sounding just a bit farther away than Arthur would like.

“Yeah. I’m, erm.” He clears his throat and takes in a breath of stuffy air to reassure himself he is not trapped in Avalon waters, “I’m fine.”

* * *

It suffices to say that Avalon appears much changed from what Arthur remembers. The body of water still remains, pale blue surrounded by forest green. And yet there is something overwhelmingly different about it that Arthur simply can’t pinpoint.

“This place used to sing with magic,” Merlin says, taking Arthur’s hand as they walked through the pathway and toward the shore, “but magic these days is very subtle. More of a hum, now.” His explanation seems to be in answer to Arthur’s pondering, and he wonders if he should add mind-reading to the list of Merlin’s many hidden talents.

So magic still lives here. But it is changed.

Merlin leans away from Arthur to pat a tree trunk affectionately. “Good to know my favorite old tree’s still here.”

“Must be old, then,” Arthur replies, shuffling over to run his hand along the rough bark.

“I would know. I planted it.” Merlin chuckles at what Arthur figures is his utterly dumbfounded expression. “1859--nature was all the rage.”

Arthur pulls Merlin toward him again, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “So, you . . . you kept this place up. Protected it.”

“Of course I did. Isn’t that my job?” Merlin sighs, stopping in his tracks and turning to face Arthur. “I don’t know if I can do this, Arthur. Whatever we find at the lake could either keep you here or . . . or take you away from me. From us. For another very long time.”

Arthur kisses Merlin’s forehead. “Then I suppose we shouldn’t waste any more time.” And with that, he strode toward the water, Merlin trailing apprehensively behind him.

With each step he takes, a heightened, magnetized feeling begins to creep up on Arthur more and more. He stops at the shore’s edge, clenching his fists. The waters are beckoning him; each small ripple is a hand reaching out to him, and each tiny gust of breeze is a whisper of his name.

He doesn’t want to go. But fate doesn’t seem to be giving him a choice.

“Merlin,” he mutters, making every effort to keep his voice from shaking, and Merlin, beside him, says, “I know.”

He watches as Merlin tentatively kneels down next to him, peering into the water. “Freya?” he calls, “Freya, I need to speak with you.”

A blinding light seems to shoot out from beneath the water, causing Arthur to lift a hand to shield his eyes. Once he adjusts to the intensity, he sees her--Freya, hovering above water. The Lady of the Lake, his mind whispers.

“Merlin.” She smiles fondly. “I knew you’d come.”

Shaking his head a little, Merlin stands shakily. “What do you mean? It’s Arthur’s destiny to be here now. Not mine.”

“Well, if I know you, I know you will not let your king disappear from your reach again without a fight,” replies Freya, and all Arthur can do is switch his gaze back and forth between the two of them. In the past six months he’s learned quite a bit about the many secrets Merlin had been forced to keep from him back in the time of Camelot; when it came to the subject of Freya he’d always been a bit vague. The way they look at each other now, though, indicates to Arthur that they are woven together in powerful magic interwoven with history--which is something, for all his willingness to learn, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to understand.

“You have to help us, Freya."

“I am afraid there is not much I can do--"

“You told Arthur that it’s his fate to return here to Avalon,” Merlin interrupts, “that his time has not yet come. If that’s true, how can it be that I was the one to bring him back?” It’s a question-- _the_ question they've both come for, one that’s been on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, burning at the back of his mind.

Freya, expression colored with sympathy, merely says, “Love can break the binds of fate.”

“If that were true, I would have saved Arthur long ago,” retorts Merlin darkly, in a tone bitter enough that it takes Arthur a bit by surprise.

But Freya merely shakes her head. “Your magic was only just beginning to blossom then, Merlin. I cannot speak for destiny, for even I am but a lowly player in its game. But I can tell you this. You, Merlin--you are the most powerful sorcerer to ever roam this earth, the most powerful that ever will. Over hundreds of years, your magic has built up to this. Your subconscious wishes to return Arthur to you intertwined themselves with your very core--with the magic you possess. From the moment the King took his last breaths, your magic has been fighting to return him to you. You brought King Arthur back with the power of will. And it is with that same willpower that he can remain.

All you must do, Merlin, is remember the right words. Your king’s time is running out.”

Arthur is about to interject, because, frankly, he’s starting to feel a bit left out. And it’s then he realizes where the feeling is coming from.

He is disappearing. Not just to the people around him, but to his very self. The sensation of being half-submerged in water and half reaching for Merlin’s hand beside him is nauseating. _I don’t want to leave. Not yet._

“Arthur!” Merlin’s voice is muffled, but it’s just enough to ground at least a part of Arthur to the shore, and the feeling of Merlin’s hands on his shoulders, sliding up to his neck, his face, tell him that Merlin, for the time being, can still see him there. Darkness fades in and out of Arthur’s blurring vision, and he tries to speak, but his words are drowned in saltiness.

He wants to be strong. Hadn’t Camelot always flourished with the leadership of a king who was strong? Resolute? Arthur feels quite the opposite. He falls to his knees, the touch of Merlin’s arms wrapped around him oddly soothing despite the lurching of his stomach.

Despite his unreliable vision, he can perfectly see Merlin peering down at him with tears staining his face. “Freya” he calls out, “Freya, what am I supposed to remember? Tell me!”

From somewhere off, Freya repeats, “Love can break the binds of fate.” The overwhelming radiance decorating the lake fades, and she is gone.

Arthur is being cradled in Merlin’s arms. The sickening familiarity is not lost on either man.

Amongst his hazy thoughts, however, Arthur remembers his words to Merlin the day before: _Think of this as a second chance. For both of us._

And Arthur will be damned if he leaves Merlin alone to wait for him again. He may not be a powerful sorcerer, but he was known in his time for being an orator. Someone who could move people with mere words. And now he must try to do so, with all his might, for the sorcerer who loves him.

He opens his mouth to speak, unsure but hopeful that his words make the journey from his mind to his lips: “Merlin. Merlin, you must remember. What did you say to me? At the end of things? When I was dying, all that time ago?”

“I . . . I said many things, Arthur . . . I told you not to say goodbye, I--”

“Freya said from the moment I died you’ve been bringing me back. Something . . .” Arthur breathes deeply, trying to will the feeling of water filling his lungs out of forefront of his mind. “Something you said or did that night must’ve ignited the spark that brought me back to you . . . what was it?”

Merlin shakes his head, sobs causing his shoulders to tremble. “I can’t, Arthur; I can’t, I can’t--”

“You can, idiot.” Arthur gathers all the strength he has to smile. “I’m still here. You have to do this.” He reaches up to cradle Merlin’s face in the palm of his hand. “I won’t leave.”

It’s a promise he’s not sure he can keep. But he won’t let Merlin know that as long as he’s here.

“Do you remember, Merlin?” Arthur knows he’s fading, now. Whatever Merlin is meant to do now--there isn’t much time for it. “I know you do. I . . . I remember you giving me orders until my last moments. Never really understood that _I_ was the one meant to order _you_ around, did you?”

Because the truth is--Arthur truly does remember. He remembers every word Merlin spoke to him before he took his last breaths, the rise and fall of his voice, the sounds of his cries. But he understands, now, that it‘s not his job to do anything with those words. It’s Merlin’s--to grab hold of the memories shrouded in pain that he’s been unable to forget, and fill them with magic.

And in that instant, Merlin does.

He runs a hand through Arthur’s hair and whispers gently, “I asked you to stay with me.” There’s a new determination in his voice that was previously wrapped in ever-present tremors and the overwhelming feeling of being lost in time. “And you will.”

Arthur can do nothing but watch in awe as Merlin lifts his head to the sky, shouting words Arthur can’t comprehend. A whirlwind of dust and sand and sprays of salty water loops around them both, and Merlin’s voice is thunder: “ _Arthur, gebíde eac mé. Gebíde. Gebíde_!”

The very earth below Arthur rumbles and trembles, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for what will either be his final moments or his chance to live in new ones.

He isn’t sure how much time passes. A yellow light seems to hover around his consciousness, and he thinks, _I’m in Avalon again._ He prepares to let the water take him, and thinks how they say when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. He's already died once. He knows this to be true.

However, thinking about this reality he's lived--the one created for him in this modern world, having no clue up until half a year ago that he's meant to be so much more than the co-runner of Pendragon Inc--Arthur doesn't think about his childhood, or his father's stony stare that Arthur's always tried to penetrate. Rather, he thinks of meeting Merlin outside Starbucks on that winter day, and how everything after that seemed to fall perfectly into place.

Maybe he's not meant to be here to guide Albion out of any sort of time of trial just yet. But if there's anything he's sure of, he's meant to be with Merlin until the end of his days. Even if that happens to be now.

Despite all that, he knows there's so much he hasn't learned. So much about the world, about Merlin and the magic he's slowly grown accustomed to, that he doesn't understand. And that hurts most of all.

Arthur prepares to let go, of land, of life, and of Merlin once again.

He won't say goodbye. He's never been the best at goodbyes.

Some things never change.

* * *

Arthur Pendragon opens his eyes, sucking in a gulp of . . . fresh air.

Merlin is holding him just as before--he’d never let go, it seems--though his tears are those of happiness, now, judging by the wide grin on his face. “Thought you were going to nap the entire day away, you big prat."

Arthur laughs, the sound scratchy to his ears. Gingerly he sits up, clinging to Merlin's arms. "What . . . what happened?"

"We did it, Arthur,” replies Merlin, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s, “You’re here to stay.”

Well. Arthur can’t say he dislikes the sound of that.

They leave the beach hand-in-hand. As they walk, wisps of whispers of the Sidhe dance around them like the tune of an ancient song:

_“The Once and Future King’s time may not have come just yet--but when it does, Merlin, you will be ready. You have rediscovered the potential of you power and all it can do for the world, and with Arthur by your side, you shall explore newfound experiences and grow with the changes of the world, while maintaining and reinforcing the values onto which Camelot itself was once built. In this knowledge, Albion will find eternal peace and prosperity.”_

Arthur understands then, that all this hadn’t just been to bring him back. It had been to bring Merlin back, too--the Merlin whose magic lit up the world and had spurred the greatest of legends.

And that, he thinks, is a feat that far surpasses anything destiny could possibly lay out for them.

* * *

“So, I think I can definitely say it, now,” announces Arthur Pendragon decidedly. He’s sprawled out on the bed with Merlin in a tangle of limbs and sheets. As it turns out, a tiring venture to meet one’s deadly fate--and avoiding said fate--can result in various mind-blowing activities that do not at all require clothing. “You did it. You changed fate--”

“ _We_ changed fate. I couldn’t have done it without you guiding me through it,” Merlin corrects, fondly leaning up to kiss Arthur’s jawbone.

“--Fine, _we_ did, because I’m just really great at everything as we’ve well established--"

“--Dollophead."

“--but the point is, I can finally say _to hell_ with destiny.” Arthur nods proudly, all but sticking up his nose and wagging his tongue at the omnipresent Great Big Powers That Be.

“I think, maybe, it was part of our destiny all along," replies Merlin thoughtfully, “To bring each other back. Maybe fate just had make sure we were ready to take the reins." He adds, seriously, “Plus, I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that, Arthur. You might get brought back as a warthog or something in the next life if you don’t play your cards right. Not to say it wouldn’t suit you.”

That last bit receives from Arthur a rough nudge in the ribcage and an obnoxious ruffling of Merlin‘s hair. “Shut up. Anyway, I don’t care about the next life. I care about this one, with you.”

Merlin leans into Arthur, snuggling up against his chest and smiling into the crook of his arm. “That’s oddly sentimental of you,” he observes.

“Yes, well.” Arthur wraps his outstretched arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Second chances, remember?”

Whether or not he and Merlin are in control of their fate unconditionally, Arthur isn’t sure. For now, he knows he has an opportunity to make things perfectly, blissfully right between him and the warlock who waited for him for so long, to make up for all the chances lost and scattered between them. This, he thinks, is a new time. For him, for Merlin, and eventually for Albion.

And it’s only just begun.


End file.
